


Intractable

by ElderberryWine



Series: Shire Morns [36]
Category: Lord of the Rings - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Part of the Shire Morns series.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-12
Updated: 2010-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-07 05:19:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElderberryWine/pseuds/ElderberryWine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam presents his case.  The first of the last two stories in <i>Shire Morns</i>, as it transitions to <i>Far From Home</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intractable

Sam sat at the kitchen table, morning sun streaming through the windows, with his arms crossed in front of his chest. Frodo sighed. He knew that position all too well. Nevertheless, it was a battle that he must attempt.

"It was me that it was given to, Sam," he explained, patiently. "Not you. The burden's on me to see it through."

Sam gave an impatient snort to this line of reasoning. "As if Mr. Bilbo had any idea. More fell in your lap, as I see it. So's not as if he'd thought as you'd be the only one as could take care of it."

"But, Sam." Frodo arose, leaving his breakfast toast untouched. A corner of his mind noted that Sam looked, as always, especially good in the morning sun. It shone like gilt off his curls, and the planes of his face which, since he had come into maturity, had set into something very fine indeed. But there was no time for that, as he sternly shut that particular vein of thought down. There were far more important matters at hand than Sam's strong hands, currently tucked under his arms, and that lovely mouth, frowning, at the present, back at Frodo. "It wouldn't be at all safe," he began, before he suddenly realized that that line of reasoning would be anything but helpful.

"I daresay not," replied Sam, with a certain amount of firmness. "An' now, as I'd need to go help Tom w'the wheat, as I promised him last week, we must needs keep it for now." He rose up from the table, walking over to Frodo. "He wants t'be harvesting today, so I expect I won't be back until tea." Frodo nodded at that, still looking preoccupied. "We'd not be through with this, I expect," Sam added softly, giving Frodo a keen look.

Frodo gave Sam an unwilling smile. "I suppose not," he admitted. Laying a hand on Sam's shoulder, he gave it an affectionate grasp. "Don't you be fretting, my dear. Give Tom and your sister my best, then."

Sam's arms were abruptly tightly around him, and after all this time, Frodo was once again reminded how Sam could still take his breath away, as his mouth was suddenly on Frodo's. "I love you, too," Frodo said, a little shakily, when their mouths at last drew apart, and with a smile, Sam was out the kitchen door.

 

&amp;&amp;&amp;&amp;&amp;

 

The sun had set and the dusk nearly darkened into night when Sam finally returned home. Frodo was in the study when he heard the back door open, and he knew from the footsteps in the hall that Sam must be weary indeed, slow dragging steps rather than his normal gait. With concern, he got up from the translation that he had been fruitlessly staring at, and hastened to the hall just in time to see Sam, back towards him, heading down to their bedroom.

He followed, and standing in the doorway, he watched as Sam sat heavily on the chest, not wishing to begrime the bedclothes, and ran his hands tiredly through his hair. Somewhere between the doorway and the chest, he had stripped off his shirt, and it lay, very uncharacteristically of Sam, in a heap on the floor before him. His arms and chest were darkened with dirt, and trails of sweat were still visible.

"So," Frodo said softly, eying Sam with a bit of concern, "what will it be first, food or a bath?"

"Both," mumbled Sam, resting his forehead in his hands, elbows on his knees.

"Right, then," Frodo smiled. Walking over to Sam, he gently grasped one of his hands, and tugged it gently. "Lie down for a moment, Sam," he urged him, "Just rest awhile first."

Sam slowly shook his head, with a wry smile up at Frodo. "I do that, an' you'll naught be getting' me up any time soon," he murmured. "I'll just sit here for a bit, Frodo."

Frodo gave a slight chuckle at that. "Probably the best idea. I'll be right back."

 

&amp;&amp;&amp;&amp;&amp;

 

It took very little time for Frodo to start the kettle boiling, and looking quickly through the larder, he found a half of a well-wrapped seedcake from the day before, and a few fried pies. He returned to the kitchen to start the tea steeping, and sliced up a couple of pears, as well as a wedge of cheese. By now, the water had begun to boil, so he carried the kettle down to the bath room and emptied it into the wooden tub. Returning to the kitchen, he refilled it and set it back to reheat for the tea. Once again, he returned to the bathroom, this time with a pail of cool water from the pump, and added it to the tub as well. Setting out clean towels and soap, he returned to the kitchen to find that the water had again come to a boil, and this time filled the teapot. Laying the food on a plate, he returned to the bath room and set it on a convenient stool. One more trip to the kitchen was necessary for the teapot, cups, and other tea items, and finally it was ready. He returned to the bedroom.

Sam had fallen asleep still sitting on the chest, his head balanced precariously in his hands. Frodo smiled ruefully at him for a moment, reluctant to wake him when he so obviously needed the rest, but the sooner done, the sooner he could properly get to bed. Gently, he reached out and lightly shook Sam's shoulder. Sam sighed slightly, but did not wake. Seeing that a bit more persuasion was required, Frodo tenderly pushed back Sam's sweat-darkened curls, and kissed his forehead. He laughed as this approach proved more successful. Sam's arms suddenly swept around his waist, and he gave a sleepy growl as he tilted his face back, eyes still closed.

"I believe it was a bath and food that you were asking for," said Frodo, a trifle breathlessly, still caught up in Sam's embrace.

"Oh, I suppose so," Sam opened his eyes at that, slightly disappointed.

"All the better to build up your endurance, Sam," Frodo added, a bit mischievously, pulling a reluctant Sam to his feet.

"Oh, well, if you'd be puttin' it like that," Sam grinned then, rising to his feet wearily, but his eyes warm on Frodo's face. "I guess that the rest will wait a bit, at that." And he allowed himself to be led to the bath room.

Sam slowly stripped off his trousers, stepped into the tub, and gradually sank down into the steamy water with a groan of muted gratification. Frodo moved aside the plate of food for the time being, and sat on the stool beside the tub himself. Taking up a washcloth and dipping it in the warm water, he picked up a cake of soap and lathered it . "Go on, lean forward," he instructed Sam softly. Sam drew up his knees, and resting his forehead on them, clasped his arms around his legs, and sat quietly as Frodo gently soaped down his back.

"Ned turned his ankle," he mumbled, head still down, as Frodo's strokes were soothing and relaxing on his sun-reddened back. "An' the Bolger lads couldn't come, their own harvest is takin' longer than they thought. Nob has taken his wife to visit her ma in East Farthing, she's been taken poorly. So t'was just Tom and me."

"I would have helped," Frodo said quietly, his strokes never ceasing.

"I know, me dear," Sam's voice, though rather muffled, sounded contrite. "But there was no-one as I could send, and I didn't want to stop. It still looks as if t'will be raining afore the night is out."

"You probably should have stayed with your sister and Tom for the night then, instead of walking all the way back here," Frodo had finished Sam's back, and gently pushing his shoulders back against the tub, had started on his chest.

"Like enough," sighed Sam, with closed eyes. He let Frodo's caressing touch continue for a few more minutes before he opened his eyes, and gazing directly at Frodo, added, "But I never could be sleepin' in a strange bed. Which would be," he added, almost reluctantly, "any bed without you."

Frodo's eyes dipped down at that, and he continued to soap down Sam's shoulders without any further comment. Dipping his cloth in the water, he rinsed Sam off and said, in a curiously rough tone, "Your hair, Sam. Lean forward."

Sam did as he was bid, and soon Frodo's strong fingers were expertly massaging the suds through Sam's sweat-matted curls.

"You have such beautiful hair," Frodo commented suddenly after several moments silence. "Such a lovely gold, Sam. It always catches the light."

Sam looked curiously over at Frodo, but his face was shadowed by the candlelight, and, standing up, he offered Sam the plate of food. "The tea's gone cold," he mentioned briefly, "I'll be off for some more hot water," and he quickly left the room. Sam munched his pear thoughtfully.

 

&amp;&amp;&amp;&amp;&amp;

 

Frodo looked down at Sam in their bed, by the light of the candle that he held in his hand. There was no light from the window tonight, for Sam had been, of course, right, and the rain was being swept against it, even now. Summer was nearly gone, and it would soon be his birthday again. And Bilbo's as well, but how many still remembered that?

Sam was fast asleep, exhausted from the long day. He lay on his back, on his customary side of the bed, with one arm flung up out of the blankets and over his face. Frodo knew that Sam had been waiting for him, but had purposely delayed his own retirement until he was sure that Sam would be asleep. It had not taken long.

Blowing out the candle, he quietly climbed into bed, but even though Sam never awoke, he turned instinctively to Frodo in his sleep and threw an arm over him. Frodo could feel Sam's foot tucking itself under his leg in its customary way, and, unable to help himself, he let his own arm seek Sam's shoulder, and Sam's face found its habitual position against his neck. Sam's steady breathing became more peaceful at that, but it was long before Frodo could fall asleep.

 

&amp;&amp;&amp;&amp;&amp;

 

Gandalf had come and gone like a whirlwind, leaving nothing but wreck behind. Evil, he had called Bilbo's ring, so evil indeed that he, a wizard, dare not take it. And now the task lay upon Frodo, as Bilbo's heir, to take it from the Shire, to where others would decide what must be done with it. And when Gandalf returned, by the time of his birthday, Frodo knew that he must be ready to leave the Shire. Try as he might, he could not rationalize away that gnawing fear that woke him out of a sound sleep with a pounding heart. It was that fear that had made him all the more determined that Sam would not be coming with him.

 

&amp;&amp;&amp;&amp;&amp;

 

There was a polite knock on the front door of Bag End in the early afternoon, and Frodo found Gaffer Gamgee on the doorstep, cap in hand. "Good day t'ye, Mr. Frodo," the old hobbit nodded his head respectfully at the Master of Bag End. "I'us wonderin' if Sam and yourself might be able to spare some time to stop by the Green Dragon for a mug." In the years that Sam had lived at Bag End, the gaffer had to devise his own intricate system of civilities, still allowing for proper respect for Frodo's position, but yet acknowledging Frodo's newer role as an informal member of his family as well. He had managed it rather well, Frodo thought, and he smiled warmly at Sam's father.

"I'm not sure if I can today, Mr. Gamgee, but let me check with Sam. Come down to the kitchen, won't you? He's in the back garden."

The gaffer followed Frodo down the halls of the smial, long familiar to him, from even before Frodo's time, but still with proper respect. Frodo urged him to have a seat at the kitchen table, by the fire still warm from lunch, and went out the back door to find Sam.

The rains of the night before had come and gone quickly, but Sam was taking advantage of the loosened soil to do some weeding around the kitchen garden this cloudy day. He glanced up as Frodo walked toward him, with a smile. "Your father's here, Sam. He's looking to go to the Green Dragon."

"Aye, it's been a few days," Sam commented, rising from his knees and stretching with a quick wince.

"Still sore?" Frodo asked, reaching out to gently rub his shoulders, with a slight frown.

"Ah, it'll be gone by the morrow," Sam answered with a quick grin and the easy confidence of the young. "A mug would taste pretty good, at that. Will you come, too, Frodo?"

Frodo shook his head. "Your father needs some time with you," he replied, fondly. "I'll join the both of you next time."

Sam studied him briefly without a word, and then bent down and picked up his weeding fork. "I'll be rememberin' that," he answered, with a slight tease in his voice, but with something more than that as well.

 

&amp;&amp;&amp;&amp;&amp;

 

Frodo watched the pair walk from Bag End, Sam strong and handsome, and his father, older and bent, but still a fine-looking hobbit as well, one hand tucked firmly around Sam's supporting arm. The gaffer had taken a spill in the Row the month before, and even though it was on his way back home, it was tacitly agreed between he and Sam that he shouldn't be attempting that stroll alone any more, especially since he was adamant about the fact that he needed no stick to get about. So Sam took him down to the inn two or three times a week, sometimes accompanied by Frodo as well. But this evening, Frodo had other plans. He re-entered the smial, and slowly walked down the hall to the study.

It was in a plain case, sitting atop the shelf above the desk. Bilbo carried it so many years, he thought suddenly, and yet it never seemed to affect him, this heirloom that seemed to frighten Gandalf so. It was, after all, just a simple golden band. True, he had seen the flowing script the last visit, when Gandalf had cast it into the fire, but that seemed a simple trick of its manufacture. What an unpretentious object for which to turn one's life upside down.

And yet he could not deny it. The unease that gripped him when he opened the small box to gaze upon it. What he never doubted was Gandalf's word that it was evil. In what way, exactly, he was not certain, but he knew, without a doubt, that it could not remain in the Shire. And that meant that he must leave with it, and soon.

But Sam. Evil must not touch Sam, he had firmly resolved that. And how could Sam leave with him, when there were so many who depended on him, his family, his friends? No, it was far better that he stay here, until Frodo could return. The thought of leaving him behind cut Frodo to the bone, he could not deny it, but the danger was too great. Even if he knew that he could never explain it to Sam. Sam would forgive him eventually, he knew that. And when Gandalf returned, soon now, he would be leaving and Sam would have to stay. Sitting down before the fire, he stared into the flames without seeing.

Sam returned that evening to find Frodo still staring into the fire, with no sign of having had dinner. Hiding the foreboding that had been haunting him continually as of late, he mentioned that fact. Frodo looked up at him quickly, but then turned his eyes back on the fire with a polite, meaningless smile. "That's all right, Sam," he said shortly. "I'll be to bed soon."

Sam gazed at him with a troubled look, but did not know what to say. Finally, he turned and headed down the hall.

 

&amp;&amp;&amp;&amp;&amp;

 

It was much later that night when Sam eventually returned to the study. Frodo had never come to bed, but instead of finding him asleep in his chair, as Sam had expected, he was wide awake, and still staring at the fire, exactly as Sam had left him.

"Frodo," Sam said softly, after standing silently in the doorway, in his nightshirt, watching him for a moment. He crossed the room, and standing behind Frodo, placed gentle hands upon his shoulders. "Talk to me, Frodo."

"I can't," Frodo said shortly, standing up abruptly. "It's late, Sam."

 

&amp;&amp;&amp;&amp;&amp;

 

The air was soft on Sam's face the next morning, one of those glorious early autumn days before the early morning chill had begun, with only the whisper of a breeze upon his face. Sam stood in the garden, watching the kitchen window. Frodo had been washing the breakfast dishes, but he had stopped, now gazing unseeingly out the window, unaware that Sam was watching.

With a sigh, Sam bent back over his weeding, thankful for the tasks that kept his hands busy. But he could not escape the dread that had settled over him as surely, these past few weeks, as the damp mist from the Brandywine. He knew, all too well, that Frodo was waiting only for Gandalf's reappearance to leave. And to leave without him. The thought cut through his heart, so deeply indeed, that he found that he could not speak of it. For surely, if he tried to say a word to Frodo on this, he would dissolve into tears such as a hopeless child would shed, and what could come of that? He never had any skill with his words at all, and he knew how determined Frodo had become on this matter.

So the both of them were spending the days, perhaps Frodo's last in the Shire, with a wall between them, a separation that Sam did not know how to cross. All he knew was that, for whatever reason, Frodo had resolved to go without him, and he would not be able to bear it. So he watched Frodo, when he thought Frodo did not know, and held every sight and touch of him fiercely in his heart, cherishing it, and left Bag End only reluctantly, and felt his heart slowly, agonizingly, bleeding at the thought that Frodo, however well-meaning, could be thinking of leaving him behind, perhaps forever.

His hands were guided by the experience behind the years of training, but there were tears falling into the dirt, and he never saw the strong young plants as he worked, blindly tending them.

 

&amp;&amp;&amp;&amp;&amp;

 

Leaves were turning gold and falling, and the days were falling by as well. Only two days were left until Frodo's birthday, when he made a trip into Hobbiton. He did not tell Sam the nature of his errand, and Sam could not bring himself to ask, but when Frodo returned that afternoon, his face was closed off and his manner withdrawn, and he declined Sam's offer of tea, and withdrew into the study.

Dinner, that evening, was, as it had become all too often as of late, a stilted and silent affair. Frodo was hardly eating at all, as was always his custom under stress, but neither was Sam, for that matter. After Frodo had returned to the study, and Sam had cleared off the dishes, Sam could stand it no longer. Walking out the kitchen door, he climbed up to the field behind Bag End without a light in the dark night, and walked aimlessly on until he reached the apple trees at the far end. It was there that he leaned his head against the bark of the tree, the aroma of the soon-to-be-harvested apples heady in the cool night, and began to hopelessly sob. There was nothing he could think of to do. Frodo would not talk to him, and he seemed to even avoid him in bed. It had been weeks since they had made love; Frodo either was too tired, or he was too busy, and they rarely went to sleep at the same time. But crying didn't help, it never did. So would this be all he'd have to remember? Spent, Sam silently returned to the smial, misery in his heart.

 

&amp;&amp;&amp;&amp;&amp;

 

He found Frodo in the study, as usual, but scribbling something out hastily on foolscap, which he quickly hid under a book as Sam walked into the room. With a show of nonchalance, Frodo rose and walked over to the fire, his right hand deep in his pocket, and Sam knew, with absolute certainty, what was there.

"I went to the solicitor today," Frodo said abruptly, staring into the fire, with his back to Sam. "I'd rather not have any uncertainty, just in case…" Here he stopped suddenly, and swallowed convulsively, still deliberately not looking at Sam.

Sam stood there aghast, the dark gulf between he and Frodo widening, but with the seed of something within his heart that was so foreign to Sam that he could scarcely recognize it for what it was, a deep-seated, fierce anger.

Frodo had visibly collected himself by now, and continued. "Bag End is yours, of course, Sam. And I've had all my funds set in your name. So, if someday, you have any children, you'll be able to…"

But Sam had had enough. "Frodo!" he grated, and Frodo spun around suddenly, amazed at the tone he had never before heard in Sam's voice.

"I canna be believin' you'd still be on that," Sam growled furiously. "I'd thought we'd had just about enough o'that long ago, now."

Frodo, although visibly taken aback by Sam's intensity, squared his shoulders and tried to regain his composure. "It's just a precaution, Sam," he replied, somewhat testily. "There's just no telling, and you might want to start a family at some point. You're much too young to be writing that possibility off for good. And if so, it's my responsibility…"

But that was where Sam could finally take no more. With a sharp howl of anger mixed with anguish, he snatched up a tea cup that happened to be sitting on a table within reach, and without thought, hurled it into the fire, with a cry of pain. It shattered into the flames, but Sam did not watch as he turned to Frodo with a cold rage that he had never felt before.

"I am not your responsibility, Frodo, and I never have been. I'm your bedmate, is what I am, and nobody's responsibility but my own," he gritted out through his teeth furiously, glaring at Frodo, whose color was draining from his face, as he watched Sam, stunned and in shock.

"But Sam," he began, his voice faltering slightly, try as he might to keep it steady. "I've already told you, I won't have you put in danger this way."

"An' I'm tellin' you," Sam continued relentlessly, his hands clenched at his sides, "that'd be up to me, now, wouldn't it. Because I ain't your son, I ain't your heir, and the Lady knows, I ain't your servant no more, not nohow."

Frodo had no response to this, but watched Sam in horrified fascination, rather as a field mouse watches a great hawk descending upon him.

Sam had stepped forward then, and snatching up the paper on which Frodo had been writing, he tossed it, without sight, into the flames. "There would never be aught on that piece o'paper that you could ever gi'me, that I'd ever want," he snarled, still glaring at Frodo. "I've never wanted this smial, nor any o'your gold. No, naught but your heart."

"You've always had that," Frodo whispered, not knowing what else to say.

"Have I then?" Sam's face was intent, staring at Frodo almost coldly, as he stepped even closer to the transfixed hobbit. "Then tell me you'd not be needin' this." And suddenly his mouth was hard and burning on Frodo's, and his arms were so tight about Frodo that he could scarcely breath.

After the first moment's shocked acceptance, Frodo tried to push Sam back from him, all too aware that his guard would not last long before Sam's assault upon his senses. "Sam, that's not the point," he gasped, when he could break his mouth away from Sam's, firmly pushing back with his fists against Sam's shoulders.

"Then I'd like t'know what could be more the point," Sam whispered harshly, still breathing heavily, and his strong hands still wrapped tightly around Frodo's arms, holding him fast. "I'm naught but a pretty t'be protected, an' taken care of? I gave you my heart, Frodo, an' t'was for good, not just for when t'was easy." And even as Frodo was frantically searching for words with which to answer him, Sam took matters into his own hands again. "Tell me you never meant this," he muttered roughly, before his mouth was on Frodo's again. And this time, his insistent tongue penetrated Frodo's mouth and fiercely sought his own, and passionately twined with it, a deep and burning joining that Frodo fought desperately to resist, knowing that he would soon be lost otherwise.

"No!" he gasped, pulling away with all his strength. "This isn't settling anything, Sam. I have to go, there's no choice, but it makes no sense at all to risk you as well." He wrenched his arms out of Sam's grasp, and faced him, his breathing labored and gasping. "You have family and friends who depend on you, Sam. I can't take you from them. What would your gaffer do without you?"

Sam was staring stormily at him, his back to the fire, and his eyes shadowed and unreadable.

"It's more the Master of Bag End that'll be missed if I go, not me," Frodo continued recklessly, drawing himself up with all the command that he could summon. "I'm more sorry than I can tell you, Sam but that's the way it has to be."

Sam studied him for a moment more and then stepped forward. "T'was not the Master o'Bag End as I've been sleepin' with," he said quietly, but very deliberately. "T'was never the Master o'Bag End as I held in my arms when I woke up in the mornings. An' t'was never the Master who called out so when my hands and mouth were on him, who moved under me, an' wrapped his legs tight around me, an' asked for more. That'd be you, Frodo. There'd be nobody else in this smial other than you. So I care naught if the Master comes or goes, for when I reach my hand out, 'tis you, Frodo, that I touch, not the Master." He grasped Frodo's shoulders firmly at that, striding forward once more, as Frodo backed up under his touch. "Tell me, Frodo," he whispered harshly, sliding an insistent hand roughly up Frodo's neck, and tightly twining it in the dark curls at the back of Frodo's head. His other hand descended down Frodo's back, and under the waist of his trousers, reaching adamantly down, unstoppable and undeniable. "Tell me you can do without this."

Frodo cried out hopelessly, his back arching and his eyes closing, into Sam's touch. "I'd follow you, whether or no, Frodo," Sam whispered into his ear before taking the tip in his mouth and sucking hard. "You need me, as much as I need you."

"Ahh," Frodo moaned, powerless from digging his fingers into Sam's arms, unable to keep from molding himself against Sam, from pressing himself as tightly as he possibly could against him.

"Tell me," that voice was insistent in his ear, followed by Sam's mouth on his neck, his throat, burning hard kisses, that did not care if they left a mark or not.

"Oh, Sam, don't do this, don't," Frodo's face was twisted with anguish, but his hands on Sam were not pushing him away. Dimly, he felt his knees buckling under him, but he was not falling, rather he was being lowered onto the hearth rug.

And now Sam's mouth was once again over his own, Sam's tongue claiming him, penetrating, probing, and his was answering in kind. His eyes were tightly shut, but he felt Sam over him, one hand still under him, and the other was sliding down, hot and burning against his eager, traitorous skin. His hands were no longer pushing Sam away, but clutching him desperately, pulling him closer than ever possible. And as the tears slid unchecked down his cheeks, he knew defeat.

But he was not alone. Opening his eyes, his gaze met Sam's, and the tears were falling from Sam's eyes as well. "Don't break my heart, Frodo," Sam whispered brokenly, as he brought both hands up and cradled Frodo's face. "Or if you ever come back, I'll be gone."

Frodo wordlessly wrapped his arms around Sam, and drew him down, and kissed him passionately. He had lost, and yet, he had never received a greater gift.


End file.
